


The Boy Next Door

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, And a fierce friend, Awkward Crush, Backstory, Banter, Canon Trans Character, Crush at First Sight, First Meetings, Free Marches (Dragon Age), Friendship, Friendship/Love, Implied Eventual Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Krem is a terrible almost-flirt, Krem is also prickly, Literally terrible at almost-flirting, Loneliness, M/M, Meet-Cute, Modern Thedas, Nobody is who they seem, Opposites Attract, Pre-Slash, Prodigies, Summer, Teenage Dorks, Tevinter Imperium, new kid on the block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 22:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14146101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: The new neighbors arrive on Madden Loop at midmorning. . . .And it’s the first, brightest day of the rest of everyone’s lives.





	The Boy Next Door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewickedkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewickedkat/gifts), [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts), [Thunderthighs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunderthighs/gifts), [hotot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern Thedas AU. Snarky-sweet-awkward teen meet-cute/friendship, with romantic leanings. Canon trans character. Swearing.

 

The new neighbors arrive on Madden Loop at midmorning.

 

Nearly two hours earlier, Gus’s uncle had begun his grumbling, sighing Friday morning-commute from their pleasant, firmly mid-middle-class neighborhood. His usual route took him from Wycome’s tone-y eastern suburbs, west to the city center, then to the Uni’s district campus near the western edge of the city.

 

After waving and watching as his uncle strode off to the nearest public transport stop—around the corner and three streets south—with dramatic resignation, Gus had gone to finish his breakfast and morning reading. Neither had taken terribly long, and Gus had been sitting on the front porch steps by half-past seven.

 

By eight, the other neighborhood children—mostly Gus’s age, with some a couple years older or a few years younger—had been stirring. Then out and about, making plans and factions for the day. As usual, none of these efforts had included Gus, nor had their creators even recognized Gus’s existence as they passed, passed, and re-passed the Florens’s neatly-manicured property. Rather, their acknowledgement of Gus’s existence had been the extravagance with which they ignored him. And not one iota of acknowledgement more.

 

After seven years of varying levels of this sort of deliberate slighting—more than half his life of: “See? We’re having such _lovely_ fun and _you're not invited!_ You won’t ever be! And we very much want you to know it and _never forget it!_ ”—Gus hadn’t noticed or attached more significance to _this_ morning’s slighting than usual. It would certainly have been worth remarking upon had one of other neighborhood children _acknowledged_ him. Especially had they done so _without_ their parents’ urgings, and stern admonishments about politeness and niceness.

 

Had _that_ happened, Gus might have swooned from the unparalleled shock. But it hadn’t, and Gus had simply done as he had in the nearly three weeks since mid-Justinian and the end of the school year, until this first Friday in Solace. As he’ll _be_ doing for the entire summer, if the past seven are any indication.

 

Alone-ness—and, frequently, _loneliness_ —are Gus’s default states. And though he’s aware of the sadness of this, and occasionally taken by a yearning for some sort of superficial companionship . . . or even a real companion, he’s long-since given up on changing this default anytime soon.

 

Thus, when the removalists’ lorries and trucks rumble down to the curve of Madden Loop’s cul-de-sac at nearly quarter of nine, Gus isn’t distracted by anyone or anything at all but his own solitude. And that, it turns out, is no match for the advent of a new neighbor.

 

This new neighbor, in a _huge_ pick-up truck, leads the removalists to a bungalow across the street. (It’s the last house on the odd-side of Madden Loop, before the lightly-wooded bit of acreage that demarcates the curve of the cul-de-sac, then the even-side of the street, which starts with Gus’s house.) It’s the color of a sunless, _endless_ cobalt sea—such a _cool_  hue, even under the aggressive beat of the Solace sun. Gus is so mesmerized by that shade of blue, that he barely notices his new neighbor—neighbors—until they’re out of the pick-up and chatting with the removalists.

 

The more noticeable of the two new neighbors is an intimidatingly _massive_ man of obvious Vashoth Qunari descent. Perhaps he’s even a first-generation defector from the Qun, as he appears to be full-blooded: from long, dangerous-looking horns to skin the color of blanched-Marengo. He’s sporting a piratical black and silver eyepatch and has a booming laugh that seems to echo off the sky, but it’s the new neighbor- _boy_ Gus _really_ notices first off.

 

Even from a distance, the boy looks to be distinctly shorter than Gus—much like all the other neighborhood boys and no few of the adults—but he also looks sturdy and _strong_.

 

Gus can tell he’s strong because despite being short, he—like the Vashoth man Gus supposes to be the boy’s . . . father?—helps the removalists unload all manner of heavy-things from the lorries and trucks over the rest of the morning and early afternoon. The lot of them shuttle enormous, wooden furniture, the usual sort of major appliances, exercise and sparring equipment, and particular mod-cons, into the rustic-style bungalow which has stood empty for as long as Gus has lived on Madden Loop.

 

The slight humidity of early morning—from dew and lack of a ferocious light-source attacking the atmosphere—is quickly burnt away. Soon, even from his distance across the Loop’s wide street, Gus can tell the removalists and the new neighbors are getting sweaty . . . the removalists, most of all. The Vashoth neighbor-man had removed his gray t-shirt early in the moving, leaving him only wearing royal-purple tracksuit bottoms, and enormous red and white tennis shoes. He’s only lightly sheened, despite doing about five times his share of the lifting.

 

The neighbor-boy is dressed in a baggy, long-sleeved, hunter-green t-shirt—of all the ridiculous things—with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And he remains so modestly and _warmly_ covered, even though the day is seasonable to the point of being oppressively warm. Just watching the boy lift and shuttle things whilst so swaddled makes Gus overheat in sympathy. He knows he, himself, would’ve been soaked with perspiration after half an hour of such exertion, even if he _hadn’t_ been wearing a dark, long-sleeved shirt. But the boy seems unfazed. And unsoaked.

 

He lifts and totes and moves things with determination and confidence. It’s as if he hasn’t been informed that such a compact young man—despite being intriguingly muscular, from what Gus can tell, blocked as he is by the irritating obscuration of the stupid-baggy t-shirt—shouldn’t be able to keep up with a Vashoth Qunari _and_ seasoned, professional removalists.

 

Or perhaps . . . someone at some point had informed this new kid of exactly that, and the new kid had refused to take it under advisement or consideration. Ever.

 

Something about the square of the boy's slim shoulders and the stubborn, focused scowl he's worn all morning suggests to Gus that this latter is very likely the case. For some reason, that makes Gus grin.

 

And as Gus grins, distracted and not wearing his usual placid, meaningless half-smile, the Vashoth man glances over at him.

 

He'd taken a break to drink from a big water bottle that’s nearly empty but now, instead of knocking back the last few swallows, the man lowers the bottle without drinking. He raises his free hand and waves, and Gus nearly shakes his head in bemusement. Even with distance and perspective taken into account, that hand is _huge_. But it’s still proportionate to the rest of the man. He’s simply massive _in his entirety_ , like a mountain that’s been turned into a person.

 

Gus nonetheless waves back and smiles wider. Adults always seem to take to him right off, and this Vashoth man is probably no different. In a mere few weeks, he’ll probably be remonstrating with his son for not being friendly with Gus, or even just the sort of stilted-polite that adults think can be mistaken for friendliness.

 

Such _politeness_ makes Gus’s stomach churn and burn with . . . frustration that is slow to build and even slower to leave.

 

Morning turns steadily, somewhat pleasantly into early afternoon. Gus sits vigil on his front steps and watches the mostly-forgotten, old bungalow be filled with something other than silence and lonely ghosts. He listens to the removalists and the neighbors swear and grunt, laugh and shout friendly insults about each other’s strength, stamina, parentage, and taste in paramours.

 

Gus doesn’t realize he’s been grinning almost constantly for hours until the new, sturdy-short neighbor-boy glances his way and frowns. And stares.

 

Hard.

 

 _Neither of them_ is grinning or pleased, now that the new boy has noticed Gus and been forced to acknowledge his existence. Gus sighs and can only imagine that this is the start of another bit of _status quo_ and the continuing of a neighborhood tradition that’s as strong as it is mystifying and saddening.

 

But then, instead of proceeding to dismiss and ignore Gus ever after, the new boy’s arm reluctantly shoots up a bit, his dirty palm starfishing in a terse, almost grudging wave. Before Gus can wave back, the boy turns and strides off toward the massive blue pick-up his father had driven, stretching his arms—his forearms are tanned, corded, and eye-pleasing—and rolling those narrow, but strong-looking shoulders.

 

 _Huh_ , Gus thinks, then blinks, watching the boy heft a tall coatrack, seemingly thicker than the boy’s tensed bicep, and certainly taller than all of him. Which it would have to be, to keep the Vashoth man’s coats from trailing on the floor and tripping guests five steps into the foyer.

 

By seven minutes past two in the afternoon—according to Gus’s wristwatch, a quaint affectation he shares with his uncle—the moving vehicles appear to be emptied. The removalists and neighbors all gather on the front walk, laughing and talking, all with fresh bottles of water.

 

The Vashoth man is once more wearing his tight gray t-shirt—probably anything that isn’t tailored, or a tarp would be tight on him, he’s so very large—and gesturing expansively with his water bottle-hand as he speaks. The other hand rests on the shoulder of his son, who’s scowling distractedly at . . . the world. At the dusty sidewalk between street and lawn; at _Serah_ Wlodarksi’s half-feral tom, Niskya, as he streaks past pursued by something only he can see; at one of the empty lorries, green-on-white and gleaming in the sun . . . and at Gus, again.

 

 _Increasingly_ , more at Gus, than at anything else, since none of those other things is looking right back.

 

Eventually, the boy’s father sends the removalists on their way after friendly handshakes with each of them. Gus is quite certain the handshakes are the media for generous gratuities, if the pleased grins and laughter as the removalists depart are any judge.

 

Gus’s uncle has always advised _Gus_ to be both _discreet and generous_ when tipping, as circumstances and funds permit. Gus is cautiously delighted at the thought that his uncle and the new Vashoth neighbor might find other sterling qualities on which to build a solid, friendly relationship, if not an actual friendship. Like Gus, his uncle is more alone than he likes and far more lonely than _Gus_ , who’s really never been anything else—not even back before they expatriated from the Imperium. . . .

 

Across the Loop, father and son watch the lorries and trucks disappear. In less than a minute, the street is relatively quiet again. The newly-occupied property is clear of all vehicles, but for the huge man’s huge, blue pick-up. And it’s clear of all people, but for the huge man and his very-much-not-huge son.

 

The latter is still looking right at Gus.

 

His expression doesn’t change, nor does he shift in the slightest. But it’s mere moments after Gus has returned the boy’s attention that he again garners the father’s. And, also, a warm, friendly— _huge_ —smile that draws Gus’s own smile automatically.

 

The huge man’s dark brows lift, and he glances up and down the Loop, his eye lighting briefly on neighborhood kids playing and/or congregating in threes, fours, and mores along the street. When his gaze drifts back to Gus—still curious, but now considering, as well—Gus merely shrugs, eloquent and ironic. That shrug is the same answer he used to give to similar silent questions, back when his uncle’d had hopes that Gus might find a friend, with just the right sort of tailored effort and clever-sparkling hook.

 

The Vashoth man’s smile slips just a little, before firming back up, big and bold. And, also quite ironic. Then he blinks—or possibly winks . . . Gus supposes that’s up for debate, considering the eyepatch—and says something to his son. The boy shrugs, too, seeming both tense and brooding, his focused stare at Gus unwavering and piercing. At least until the Vashoth man puts an arm around him, hugs him close for a few seconds, murmuring something, then claps the boy on the back.

 

That clap is half-urging, and doubles as a solid shove in Gus’s general direction. The boy finally shifts his glower back and up— _and up and up_ —to his father, who laughs and nods Gus-ward, waving his big, Marengo-gray hand again. Gus, finally released from the boy’s intent stare and attention, composes himself and returns his new neighbor’s wave limply.

 

The frown and glower only deepen—near-exponentially—when the boy looks back to Gus.

 

 _Here we go, again_ , Gus thinks with familiar gloom and perforce sanguinity, mentally shuttling yet another neighbor-kid into the full-to-bursting **NOT.** column of his mental **FRIEND?/NOT.** score-sheet. The **FRIEND?** column is so empty, it doesn’t even warrant a telltale lone cricket making that trademarked, silence-showcasing _reet-reet_.

 

With another semi-shove for his son and a jaunty salute for Gus, the big man turns and saunters toward his truck.

 

It isn’t until his father’s started the pick-up—and rolled it up the slight incline of the driveway and into the single car-garage—that the boy stops glowering at Gus as if he’s a trick mathematics-problem. He heaves a very visible and deep sigh, squares his narrow-strong shoulders, and marches across the lawn and sidewalk.

 

Then he hops off the shallow kerb and crosses the summer-dusty macadam.

 

All still in Gus’s general—then, _specific_ direction.

 

Gus’s eyes, already wide, are practically saucers by the time the boy’s traversed the road and Gus’s walk, to stand some few feet away: slightly shorter than advertised, sturdier than distance had implied, and every inch as wary as his glowering had telegraphed. He’s wearing the least agreeable, _most pained_ smirk Gus has ever seen.

 

But despite the unhappy expression, the boy has a nice face—narrow, fine-featured, and almost pretty . . . or it would be if he wasn’t fighting a scowl like unholy doom—with long eyes, slightly up-slanted at the corners and the color of ginger ale in the summer sunlight. His crew-cut hair is a golden-brown that’s not so different from that of his eyes.

 

All his visible skin—mostly his face, his neck, and his corded forearms—is rather deeply tanned. He’s got more than a few fading and healing scrapes, and bruises that suggest a fairly active lifestyle.

 

“So,” the boy finally says after studying Gus in turn, squinting those long-and-slanted, ginger ale-eyes and pursing his small-ish mouth. His arms are crossed over the front of his long-sleeved t-shirt. “Bull seems to think you watching us cart all our shit into the house for hours means you and I are destined to be best-forever-friends. _I_ think that just means you’re bored and nosy, but . . . try arguing _anything_ with Bull and compare it to banging your head against a brick wall.”

 

Gus blinks at the boy and frowns. He’s certain he should be insulted and supposes he’ll get right on that, sometime later. As it is, he’s terribly pressed to come up with an intelligent response in the face of the boy’s familiar accent. Despite the coarseness of it, it sounds so strongly of the home Gus hasn’t seen in more than half his life, that it makes his heart race rather jaggedly.

 

“Erm,” he manages in a low-quiet mumble, frowning some more as the new boy smirks wider, little shit-snarky and sarcastic. But the expression suits him far more than that grimace had.

 

“Aaaand speaking of brick walls,” he drawls. His voice is light, even, well-modulated and well-controlled, unlike Gus’s, which cracks and creaks of late. “Whatsamatta? Nug got your tongue, then?”

 

“No.” Gus clears his throat, though he knows that won’t help the creaking very much. “I . . . it’s been some time since I . . . since I’ve met anyone who sounds like, er, _home_. You’re from . . . Minrathous, yes?”

 

The boy’s eyes widen, then narrow more than ever in a squint that’s grim and suspicious. “You . . . you’re a ‘Vint, too, eh?” He seems less than pleased about this, his mouth screwing into a dyspeptic moue. “All this way south of the bloody Imperium, and I run into another ‘Vint? Well, _fasta-bloody-vass_.”

 

Gus goggles and gapes, then huffs. “My Uncle Dorian, erm, says it’s not polite to swear in conversation with a near-perfect stranger. That it makes people think one was raised by heathens and ne’er-do-wells. Or Fereldans.”

 

The boy snorts a quick laugh, his crooked-crafty smirk widening. “Yeah, well . . . it’s a real good thing I don’t give a toss about your uncle’s opinions or the classist assumptions of _people_ , then, innit?”

 

Silence, then, while the boy smirks even more smugly and Gus’s scandalized expression turns into a bemused, but genuine smile.

 

“Augustus Florens. But people—except for my uncle—call me _Gus_.” He holds out his hand which, like the arm it’s attached to, is outsized in length and bony. The other boy ponders arm and hand for a few moments before striding closer to accept the latter. His grip is warm, callused, and grubby, his hand smaller than Gus expects.

 

“Cremisius Bull. Everyone just calls me _Krem_. It’s faster, I suppose,” the boy adds, shrugging nonchalantly, looking Gus up and down with pointed assessment. “Whuff! They grow ‘em _tall_ in . . . whatever corner of the Imperium you’re from.”

 

“Asariel, mostly. Then Qarinus for a while. And Minrathous for a few weeks, just before Uncle Dorian moved us here.” Gus shrugs, but very carefully keeps his starting-to-slip smile propped right up. Krem’s gaze seems no more or less suspicious and considering than it had a few moments ago, and Gus counts that as a success. “And it’s not like I’m circus sideshow-tall. I’m barely five-eleven.”

 

Krem’s brows lift wryly, eloquently. “That's five inches taller than _me_. You’re a practically a skyscraper!”

 

“Maybe it’s not that _I’m_ excessively _tall_.” Gus huffs, serving Krem’s previous pointed look right back at him.

 

Now, those golden-brown brows fairly _shoot_ up, but Krem doesn’t seem flustered or discommoded. “Uh-huh. You callin’ me _short_ , then, Legs?”

 

Gus blanches then stammers. “I—look, can’t it just be that _you’re_ not that short and I’m not that _tall_?” It feels as if his face is on fire . . . every centimeter of it. He expects some sort of sharp-tongued retort from Krem, but instead of that, the other boy’s face seems to relax and brighten a bit, his smirk softening to a crooked-friendly smile that makes his tan cheeks pinken.

 

“Alright, then. If you like. ‘S no skin off mine, either way.” Krem shrugs again, waggling his expressive eyebrows. “And _Asariel_ , eh? Hoity-toity. But it could be worse, though. Could be Perivantium. Nothin’ there but a gaggle of petty, gobshite high-borns and coin-grubbing merchants. Huh, and stone-masons that couldn’t hack it in Carastes. Or so I’ve heard. I’m glad Bull dragged us here, rather than anywhere in the Imperium, that’s for bloody certain!”

 

This time, Gus’s brows shoot up. “You call your father by his last name?”

 

A flicker of emotion Gus can’t read moves across Krem’s face before that near-open friendliness shutters behind another smart-arse smirk. “I don’t call _my father_ anything at all. And I call Bull by whatever suits me most in the moment. He’s not picky.” Though the words and tone are casual, Gus gets the feeling further enquiries would be unwelcome regarding this subject. So, he simply nods, and looks up at the blameless-blue sky for a bit, to maintain his composure in the face of his first interpersonal flub. He has no idea what, if anything, to say next. He’s no social butterfly like Uncle Dorian, nor is he adept at rebooting a conversation that’s been derailed.

 

“Ah, fuck, don’t do that,” Krem groans wearily and waspishly, and Gus forsakes the timeless, serene summer sky for the more immediate, tumultuous curiosity that is Cremisius Bull. But he does his best to hold onto the bits of distant, immutable sky he’s woven into himself . . . reminds himself to always speak and act through that lens of timelessness and serenity that Uncle Dorian had helped him to find and achieve before they’d left Tevinter for the Marches.

 

“Do what?” he queries calmly, and Krem, his left eyebrow quirked with irritation, snorts.

 

“Go all . . . detached and bloody _away_ , just because I made a clear personal boundary and didn’t tap-dance about warning you back from an off-limits subject. We were having a nice bit of small talk, and it tried to get big in a way I don’t care for.” Krem shrugs and semi-glowers. “I’m not angry with _you_ and _you’re_ not in the shit with me. We can still be friends or whatever—joined at the bloody hip, and all that shit—I’m just not gonna talk about my parents. I want that established _sharpish_ , so you don’t go blundering where you’re not supposed to. And, so I don’t get angry or mean at you because _I_ didn’t nip the blundering in the bud first thing. Get me?”

 

Gus blinks, then shrugs, too, relaxing warily. “No. But Uncle Dorian always says I should do unto others as they would have done unto them. I don’t need to _understand_ your boundaries, I suppose. Just recognize them and respect them. I think I can do that.”

 

Krem blinks, also seeming surprised. Then, that warm-friendly smile makes an almost-comeback, cautious though it is. “Well. Good, then. Decent of you. Huh. Can’t say I’ve ever heard the Golden Rule changed quite like that, though,” he adds, his eyebrows waggling with amusement and armistice. Gus, letting go of the last of his calmative inner-sky and gingerly treading the strange Earth, smiles.

 

“Uncle Dorian says treating people the way _I_ want to be treated is better than nothing, but only hardly, and patronizingly dishonest to boot. I . . . tend to agree with his conclusion. Some people may not want to have long, ponderous silences aimed at them, no matter how good _I_ am at that sort of thing, or how comfortable I am having it leveled on _me_. Thus, I suppose treating others as _oneself_ wishes to be treated is discreet condescension at best, and judgmental Othering at worst. But treating others as _they_ wish to be treated—or trying to, as best one can manage—is true consideration and respect.” Gus lets his smile widen into a grin and Krem’s own smile crooks with bemusement, losing much of that guardedness. “If you’re being gracious enough to show and share who you are, then I’ll honor that in every way I can. Just . . . _do_ let me know what’s off-limits when I stumble across it? I’ll do my best to remember and respect those boundaries.”

 

Krem is gaping, now, and staring at Gus as if he’s just spoken archaic Nevarran.

 

“Erm. That’s. . . .” Krem’s brow furrows as if he’s trying to figure out how he feels and what he wants to say. “Well, I’m not sure _what_ it is, but I think it makes sense. At least in theory—showing folks respect and consideration in ways they can appreciate seems like the best start to any _real_ friendship. And it’s more than most people can wrap their tiny brains around doing.” Snorting again, he gives Gus another once over, his ginger ale-eyes narrowing in sudden contemplation. “Huh. I just realized you and me’ll be going to the same high school. Unless you’re going to some fancy,  _private_ one, that is.”

 

“Ah, no. Wycome’s got the best public education and school districts in the Marches. One of the reasons my uncle moved us here, rather than Starkhaven or Tantervale.”

 

“Or bloody Kirkwall,” Krem grumbles, sniffing disapprovingly. Gus chuckles once more.

 

“Or there, yes. Wycome’s district schools are the tops. Though I’m nervous about being a freshman, I’m  _excited_ about the curricula.”

 

“ _Excited_ about the bloody curric—? Well, buh- _loody_ -hell,” Krem mutters, rolling his eyes, but he seems amused again. Then slowly startled as he looks Gus over once more, from his curly, dark hair to his surfboard-sized feet. “Wait . . .  _you’re_ gonna be a freshman? All eight and a half feet of you?”

 

Gus nods. “Yes. There _was_ some talk of me being started as a, erm, freshman at uni, for academic purposes, but Uncle Dorian insisted starting high school at twelve was enough _academic purpose_ for the nonce. That socialization and learning peer-to-peer people-skills are at least as important. That no matter how wrinkly my brain, if I can’t hold a decent conversation and relate to people, whether or not they’re professional compeers or superiors . . . I might as well be a computer.”

 

“He’s got the right of that.” Krem nods, too, then his eyes widen. “Hang on—you’re . . . _twelve_?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“In _human_ years?” Krem demands and Gus rolls his eyes.

 

“No, in goat years. _Baaaaah_.”

 

A startled laugh escapes Krem. “Well—you’re so Maker-damned _tall_ , I thought you were at least a year older than me! Fifteen or even sixteen, maybe. Huh.”

 

Gus’s brows lift, now. “You’re, er, fourteen, then?”

 

“I will be in Frumentum, yeah. Ahhh—in _Harvestmere_ , I mean,” Krem corrects himself. “Bloody Southern calendar.”

 

“I still remember the Imperial names for the months and seasons, thank you very much. _And_ the Imperial year, as well as the five _annums_. I’ve not been away _that_ long,” Gus says around snickers, and Krem blushes and huffs. “My birthday’s in Eluviesta. Or Cloudreach, as it’s known hereabouts and to the rest of Southern Thedas.”

 

Krem smirks, sly and daffy. “Well, at least I don’t have to scrounge up a gift or bloody birthday card for you for another nine months or so!”

 

“Meanwhile, I have a mere _three_ months to sort out a gift _you_ won’t absolutely hate. That’s horribly unfair and I don’t envy my near-future-self at all,” Gus says morosely, though his lips are twitching. Krem laughs.

 

“Aw, I’m easy as bricks!”

 

Gus’s brow furrows. “Bricks. Right. Also known as the _easiest_ substance in Thedas. . . .”

 

“Shut up.” Krem guffaws then grins. “Not gonna lie, though: I’m a sucker for folding money. Or coins, since the Marches are still doing those. Can’t go wrong with some local currency as a gift.”

 

“My uncle says it’s the thought that counts, when it comes to gift-giving—”

 

“Your uncle sounds alright,” Krem decides tentatively, and now Gus smirks as he goes on.

 

“But he _also_ says that nothing shows an utter lack of thought like filthy lucre given in lieu of a carefully-considered and well-chosen token of one’s esteem and affection.”

 

“Awwwwg!” Krem groans dramatically, then laughs once more when Gus starts to chuckle and chuff. He closes the distance between himself and Gus’s porch steps, flopping down next to Gus on the third step, heaving an ostentatious sigh. “Fucking moving, though! I’m strong as two bloody oxen, pal, but even oxen don’t have to bear-up under a near-houseful of bloody-heavy, bloody- _huge_ furniture for almost six hours, in the summer sun!”

 

“Mm. But there _is_ the whole _dragging a plow and farmer through fields and fields-_ thing to consider. . . .”

 

“Shuuuuhdup,” Krem drawls again, good-natured and half-laughing, once more. “You show me an ox that wouldn’t keel-over dead at just one look at Bull’s idea of a couch, or bed, or armoire, or dining-room table, and I’ll show you a blind-bloody-ox!” He rolls his eyes and Gus doesn’t bother to hide his twitching grin. “You laugh, but I’m in real pain and distress! I think I sprained my appendix during hour three . . . and the bloody thing was removed when I was nine!”

 

“You’re a very colorful person . . . dramatic and prone to hyperbole,” Gus notes, giving Krem the side-eye. He receives the side-eye right back, along with an eyebrow waggle that probably means Krem’s fighting a scowl.

 

“Is that a complaint, then?”

 

“An observation, only.” Gus lets a beat pass, then looks at Krem full-on, smiling. “I happen to like those traits in people who aren’t me. In fact, you remind me of my uncle.”

 

Krem’s neat, golden-brown brows lift in eloquent commentary, though Gus can’t parse what that commentary might be. At least not until Krem smirks and shakes his head bemusedly. “ _Riiiiight_. I remind you of your uncle. Shall I save my wincing, grimacing, and sighing for after I meet him, or just get it out of the way, now?”

 

Gus blushes and shrugs. “That’s entirely up to you, Krem. But for the record, Uncle Dorian’s my favorite person in the world and the best person I’ve ever known. And I’ve known a few people,” he adds, in exact opposite of Krem’s dramatics and hyperbole.

 

“Have you, then?” Krem’s brows _do_ waggle, now. Then, after several moments of studying Gus, his smirk warms into that smile once more. _Gus_ warms and flushes, as if subject to the light of a smaller, but no less radiant _second sun_. One settled not just in Southern Thedas, but right on his front porch. And, somehow, just under every inch of Gus’s skin. “In light of all that—especially me being your favorite kinda person—I suppose I’ll reserve the wincing, grimacing, and sighing, until _after_ I’ve met your uncle, then.”

 

“As do most people who meet him, or so _he_ laments.” Gus shrugs again.

 

“Well, he can’t be _too_ bad, if he’s got such a loyal and discerning fan-club.” Another one of Krem’s crooked grins, is followed by a more playful side-eye.

 

“He’s a good person—really the best. And quite nice. _Mostly_ ,” Gus tacks on, in the name of honesty. Then he smiles a little. “And he’s determined that _I’ll_ grow up to be a socially conscious and aware, outstanding, _upstanding_ young gentleman, who embodies generosity, poise, refinement, gentility, graciousness, urbanity, charm . . . all that rot.”

 

“Ha!” Krem’s looking right at Gus, again, his ginger ale-eyes still warm and friendly, like that smile. Wry and rather approving, too, which makes Gus’s stomach and chest fizz and tingle, as if both are, indeed, _filled_ with ginger ale. “Well, nothing wrong with being fancy and high-society, and all _Marcus Manners-Face_. So long as you keep that big-brained head of yours out of your arse. Eh, well, growing up outside the Imperium’ll make _that_ less of a likelihood, I suppose.”

 

“That’s _exactly_ what Uncle Dorian says,” Gus agrees blithely, but with a solemn nod. Once again, Krem starts chuckling and snorting, and Gus joins him, though with a bit more dignity and reserve. At least until Krem elbows him, then leans into him for a few moments. Gus freezes, stock still, eyes wide and breath caught on a sharp inhale.

 

Krem is warm— _very warm_ —his sleeve-covered bicep solid and delightfully weighty-right against Gus’s bony, mostly-bare one. But despite all that warmth and weightiness, Gus still feels, for a brief eternity, as if he’s been struck by icy lightning that chills and thrills, as it electrifies. He feels as if he’s hovering a few meters above his struck-shocked body.

 

But all too soon and not soon enough, he’s once more anchored in himself, every inch of him flushed and instantly boiling as Krem leans a bit more, still chortling like a dafty. This close, he smells of fabric softener, clean sweat, and sunshine—like the incarnation of a quintessential teenage summer. And he seems to . . . _thrum_ with energy, and a vivid, hyper-realness that Gus has never before experienced. It’s as if Krem is somehow more real than anyone in Thedas . . . or perhaps even the world. As if everyone Gus has known until this point has been a mere shade of a being, or some a collection of distant phenomena, from which Gus can extrapolate and hypothesize, but never truly experience and know.

 

But Krem. . . .

 

Cremisius Bull is _noumena_. He is distinctly himself, not a mere series of sensory-data and cerebral markers. In this moment—and others, thereafter—he is . . . experienceable and knowable by Gus, and in a way no other person has been.

 

In a world where no person or thing has ever touched another person or thing, _as it truly is_ , rather than received mere _impressions_ of that other as skin-transmissions, Krem is strangely naked. Bare of layers of perception, and simply . . . himself.

 

And his self is somehow touching Gus, beyond layers and perceptions—is meeting and experiencing the core of him, somehow.

 

For a split-second, Gus is both shocked and burned by this contact, even as it lessens. He could not have been more surprised and galvanized had he been touching the heart of a star. . . .

 

. . . then the contact is ended, and the _loss_ is so stark and intense, it’s as if grief is physically manifesting in Gus’s flesh and bones. As if the day’s gone unaccountably darker. Sadder. Colder.

 

Or, that’s how it feels until Krem slings his arm around Gus’s neck—yanking him close for a few moments and squeezing his shoulder—before letting him go and shoving him away playfully.

 

 _This time_ , when the contact ends—when Krem lets go—the day, which had instantly brightened again, doesn’t dim. It doesn’t lose the happy warmth brought by Krem’s touch and closeness. Either Krem is somehow still transmitting these wonders, despite the lack of physical contact, or Gus has somehow internalized and learned to hold onto these Krem-specific responses and sensations. To inhabit the recent memories of them.

 

Gus blinks almost dazedly at the sudden brightness and intensity of the world. He’s filled with an excitement that towers far too high to be anything but . . . _happiness_. He’s also far warmer than even sunshine in Solace during mid-day can explain. Though, he still manages a shiver at the electric-tingles and icy-chills that race throughout his confused body.

 

It’s more lovely Krem-related phenomena, and Gus knows that it will be a part of him, now, even if he were to never again see Krem, and. . . .

 

Gus wouldn’t have that any other way.

 

Frozen, flushed abominably, and wide-eyed, he watches Krem straighten up, snorting and huffing out silly, weird-high giggles. The other boy has dimples and the suggestions of smile-lines, and something about those nothing-everything bits of phenomena make Gus’s incautious, overexcited heart trip right over itself. He gulps in a big breath, then fights not to cough, belch, or throw-up on Krem. Gus isn’t terribly experienced at friendships, but he’s fairly certain that the third thing, at least, would not go over well at this stage. Nor ever, really.

 

Completely clueless, Krem continues to snorfle and grin at Gus, and the precious _noumena_ of him is once more put away behind the pleasantly distracting _phenomena._ But poorly, though, now that Gus knows what white-hot, vacuum-cold, lightning-live intensity burns and perpetuates between those biceps and shoulders, and behind those dimples and _eyes_.

 

 _Of course_ , he thinks, breathless and gormless, but twitching up some semblance of a smile . . . which feels twice as odd as it probably looks. But Krem only grins at him, crooked and sweet and oblivious: a super-giant sun, attempting to hide behind a small, thin square of tissue-paper. _This is what was lacking, before. This is why no one else—not even Uncle Dorian, really_ — _made sense. It’s not that none of them are real, it’s that I didn’t know how to see that they were. To see behind their phenomena, but Krem . . . I can’t imagine not seeing behind it, in his case. Maybe now . . . maybe other people will start making sense, at last. Probably not as much sense as Krem does, but even a_ little _more sense would be—_

 

“Got something hanging out my nose, do I?” Krem asks, his left eyebrow quirking with amusement. Gus blinks.

 

“Uhhhm,” he temporizes and Krem chuckles.

 

“Last time anyone stared at me so hard, I needed a handkerchief, is all I’m sayin’.” He shrugs, then swipes at his nose.

 

“Erm, no. There’s nothing, er . . . you don’t need a handkerchief, your face is . . . ah.” Gus doesn’t quite understand why he feels it best to end the sentence there. But considering that continuing to meet Krem’s ginger ale-gaze is making his rather vast vocabulary go on holiday, it’s one of few feelings he heeds without examining too closely.

 

“My face is _ah_? Ohhh-kay, then. Good to know and it’s always nice to hear from an admirer,” Krem decides, still chuckling. Then he elbows Gus once more—brighthotmassivenoumena—and hops to his feet, dusting off his surprisingly pristine blue jeans. “ _Your_ face ain’t so bad, either, Legs. _You_ kinda remind _me_ of someone, too—buggered if I know who, though. Eh. Anyway, Bull’s probably watching us from the living room window with big, fuzzy hearts in his eyes, or something.”

 

“I suppose our ‘til-death Bee-Eff-Eff-ship _is_ both heart-warming and suspiciously predetermined,” Gus agrees nonchalantly, but only half-joking . . . or hoping he is. Krem winks.

 

“It’s certainly adorbs when the brats get along like little peases in little podses, yes.” He huffs but is still smiling. “I just hate it when the big, horned meddler’s right, is all. Like the mother I never bloody had, he is.”

 

Gus, who knows nothing about his mother, including whether she’s alive or dead—and remembers very little about his father—isn’t certain Krem’s grumbling is genuine. He strongly suspects, however, that it’s not. Also, uncertain how to respond to that, the iffy smile he sends the other boy’s way is both baffled and disarmed—shy and wavering. Krem’s own smile goes crooked and sly, yet also reassuring.

 

“Ah, but you’re a decent enough sod. Well worth Bull’s annoying I-told-you-sos and parental smugness.” Krem waggles his fine eyebrows ridiculously for a few moments. “You seem like someone who deserves pals a damned-sight better than these poopy neighbor-rats I’ve seen strutting and faffing about, acting too-cool-for-school.”

 

Gus’s smile firms up as Krem waves dismissively at the clusters of kids dotting the Loop. None of them are paying Gus or Krem any mind, and for once, Gus doesn’t care whether that’s real lack of notice or the usual ostentatiously pointed kind.

 

“They’re not my friends,” he says, clear and unequivocal. “They never have been. They’re just my neighbors.”

 

Krem’s smile falters a bit, then drops into a full frown. His eyes are narrowed and determined. “Then _fuck_ those shallow, cookie-cutter little snots—right up their pointy-snobby noses. Say, you wanna come over for supper, tonight? To me and Bull’s? Oh, and your, er, uncle, too?” Krem’s brow furrows. “It’s probably gonna be a bit chaotic, just now, not gonna lie. But if you like Antivan fare, Bull’s been making noises about celebrating the move with ziti-pizza _and_ Stromboli. And that’s just _his_ starters!”

 

Gus laughs hard, flustered and surprised and amused. Krem merely watches him, that smile making a slow, steady comeback. “Erm . . . I . . . _yes!_ Yes, I would! So might Uncle Dorian, assuming he doesn’t have to stay late to make sure the pre-Imperial Neromenian exhibit—sparing though it is—isn’t utterly banjaxed during set-up, by his assistants. _Or_ by the, er, head curator.”

 

Making a face, Gus takes a moment to sympathize with his uncle—and the department his uncle runs—for toiling under a head curator who’s barely qualified to organize a sample platter of local cheeses. Dorian Florens, fresh out of his soundest sleep, is easily more qualified to be head curator than Bran-bloody-Cavin. The man’s a piss-poor bureaucrat _and_ an even worse art historian.

 

“Brilliant! I’ll tell Bull we’re probably having company!” Krem gives Gus a thumbs-up and starts backing down the walk. “We eat around six-thirty or seven. Show up whenever you want, and if it’s a little early, we’ll put you and your uncle to work hanging mirrors and unpacking knick-knacks.”

 

Gus lets his eyebrows do some talking for a few seconds. “I, ah, wouldn’t recommend that, unless you want _your_ house to wind up laid-out entirely to _Dorian’s_ taste. He’s a past master at getting his way, regarding decoration, organization, and aesthetic arrangement.”

 

Krem’s smirk is anticipatory as he pauses his backward momentum. “Your uncle’s never met anyone like _Bull_ , I Maker-damned-guarantee _that_. But it’s always good times when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. And dinner’s always best with a show, or so Bull claims.”

 

“Bleh, so does my uncle. As if _anyone’s_ meant to divide their attention equitably whilst eating _and_ appreciating a performance. It’s just plain rude, if you ask _me_ ,” Gus says, sniffing, and Krem grins and shakes his head. Then he starts backing down the walk again, while aiming some fancy finger-gunning Gus’s way. Both barrels.

 

“Six-thirty, seven—it’s all good. If your uncle can’t make it, just you, will do, Gus—oh, er, you allergic to anything?”

 

“Anchovies,” Gus states flatly and Krem chuckles.

 

“Noted. You and me’ll get along just ducky. Agh! Shite-and-a-bloody- _half_!” Krem rights himself after stumbling backwards off the kerb and only barely managing not to fall on his arse by way of epic pinwheeling of his arms. He glares at the kerb ruefully, then snorts and shrugs. “Meant to do that,” he claims, shooting Gus a lofty glance that dares disagreement. Gus nods with wide-eyed, overdone credulity and mimes zipping his lips. Krem blows him a sarcastic raspberry that Gus barely notices as blurred motion coming up the street toward the end of the Loop—and _fast_ —catches his eye.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Krem is grumbling and chuckling, “just don’t be late or we won’t save you any garlic knots!”

 

“Yes, er—look out to your right!” Gus warns, gesturing westward down the street and half-rising from the steps. The Hönigberg’s eight years-old Twin Terrors, Ehrentraud and Edeltraud, are racing up toward the curve of the Loop on their blue bikes. Toward Krem, who has practically no time to even turn his head, let alone dart out of their way.

 

Thankfully, the mercurial, mercury-fast girls swerve smoothly to the right and left of Krem as they pass, like silent, lethal projectiles. Ehrentraud rings her bell frantically once she’s past and Edeltraud shouts: _“Watch your arse, idiot!”_

 

Then they’re side-by-side, once more, giggling and pedaling. Krem, flailing and staggering a bit belatedly, squawks as the twins—having by now raced ‘round the curve of the loop—speed back toward him. This time, he dashes out of their way, onto the spurious safety of his bit of sidewalk.

 

Ehrentraud whoops happily and rings her bell again. Edeltraud laughs, and shouts: “Plank!” as they cycle back down the street.

 

When Krem, shaking his head again, finally looks back over at him, Gus grins and spreads his hands. Krem grins back, but he’s still shaking his head.

 

“That’s some _welcome to the neighborhood_!” he bellows.

 

“At least they didn’t actually _aim_ for you! Frankie Duhamel wasn’t nearly so lucky! Or so nimble!” Gus adds, and can see Krem roll his eyes even from the yards of distance between them. As the other boy starts to back up his slightly overgrown lawn, Gus stands fully, even stepping off the bottom step of the porch.

 

Supper seems rather far away, of a sudden, even though Gus isn’t especially hungry.

 

“Maker, you’re a bloody man-made structure, all forty-seven stories of you!” Krem shouts and laughs, and Gus grins bigger than he ever has, more excited than he’s ever felt. He only barely stops himself from sprinting across the street after Krem and offering his bony-gangly assistance at furniture-shifting. He allows himself another wave—frantic and fast—and nothing more telling.

 

“Well, _every_ person’s a _man-made structure_ , if you think about it!”

 

“Most disturbing euphemism _ever_ , but I’ll take that under advisement, Legs! Later!” With a final guffaw and wave, Krem turns and lopes the rest of the way up his lawn and into the house. When the big, heavy wooden door—not a common wood, nor one native to the local area—shuts behind the other boy, Gus lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and flops easily into a sprawl on the porch steps.

 

And there he remains, holding silent and contented vigil on his neatly-swept-and-kept front steps, staring not at Krem’s house, but at the sky above it, arching and beating a blameless and benign blue. Daydreaming and smiling—optimistic and cautiously _happy_ —with the Solace sun warming his face and thoughts of _an actual friend_ warming everything else, he eventually closes his eyes and waits for six twenty-nine p.m. to tick over.

 

Augustus Florens _waits_ —practically burns to make his way _Krem-ward_. He literally counts down the seconds to already addictive _not_ -aloneness. To not- _loneliness_.

 

To . . . the next time he gets to see his new—first, finest, _only_ —friend.

**Author's Note:**

>  **  
> **  
> Credits/Sources/Thanks:  
>   
> 
> “poopy neighbour rats”: [TheWickedKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewickedkat)
> 
> Many wonderful great ideas and insightful, MAJOR saves from [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual).
> 
> Heavily-flavored by: Weezer’s [Blue Album](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HsWz7LOdd34). And considering that this fic was _inspired_ by repeated listenings to Stabbing Westward’s, [Darkest Days](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BiJqc_d44RQ), this fic’s pretty angst-free and upbeat. For me, anyway. But I’ve got some . . . headcanons and backstory for this ‘verse, which may get used if I turn this into a series (do I ever write anything that’s _not_ a series, anymore? The answer is: _sammiches_ ). And those headcanons aren’t _nearly_ as light-hearted as this fic.  
>  ::shrugs::
> 
> [TUMBLE-BUG](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!!!!


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